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Dark Rocks

The Fainne Longsword

This elegant hand-and-a-half sword takes its inspiration from a strong Irish aesthetic, featuring an iconic ring pommel like that of the Tully Lough sword. Long, straight, square-sectioned quillons draw the sword away from this source material and give it a regal bearing, while a half-steel and half-leather grip adds a touch of fantasy.

Named for the Gaelic word for "ring", the sword was built with lightness and fleetness in mind. The long ricasso portion and mostly-hollow pommel help to maintain a ready balance just forward of centre, helping the blade to excel in the cut.

Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.



∴ Notes ∴


The hand-forged and heat-treated guard, pommel and half grip are polished to a satin finish. The guard features straight quillons with a square ecusson. The ring-shaped pommel draws the eye, secured with a steel peening block.

The blade features a pronounced ricasso, with a central fuller starting beneath it and extending half way down the blade.

The lower half of the oak grip is wrapped first in linen twine, then in dark brown leather. The upper half is steel, with a ferule at the waist.


∴ Gallery ∴


∴ A Circle Unbroken ∴

Though it is just past noon the clouds are close and confounding, making you reach for a lantern to light the strange, somber hall. You paced it out once, your property, then knelt to untie the cramping leather shoes from your calloused feet before pacing it out again. Forty strides - a fine hall, for a fine gentleman.

This thought brings a scoff of laughter to your lips; you let it echo through the empty space. Aye, they call you a lord now, for your service. Through the small, square windows that line the West wall you can see fallow fields, and sheep - all yours. Ladies are obliged to bob their pretty heads when they pass you in the street, instead of muttering about your barbarism.

Had any survived, your fellows would hardly recognise you. Your tight-corded legs are bound now in silk breeches, your red-gold hair trimmed back from your eyes in the English style. The scar, you think, with an unexpected wave of relief. They would know you by the scar, sure as they remembered the battle you got it from. And the sword! Yes! The sword remains the same.

You draw it now, and take it in two hands, relishing the feel of that encircling wheel beneath battle-blistered palms. The length and breadth of the blade bely the speed with which the thing moves through a man. Aye, this is no landed lord's sword. This is the sword of a fighting man. This is the sword of a Gael.


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